Long Preset Poems
Long Preset Poems. Below are the most popular long Preset by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Preset poems by poem length and keyword.
On Sunday mornings
just what does the world do?
Such a large population off from work,
services and breakfast complete
and greeted by the day bright, clear and sunny?
We set our sights on shopping, off to the mall
or hurrying to ball games,
some preset enterprise
well planned earlier in the week.
Even Sunday services seem hurried,
people barely able to contain distraction
from an hour set aside for prayer.
Some come late, some leave early,
some check their phones for messages or calls
while others whisper conversations and plans for the day.
God above must indeed be saddened
with the one hour compromised
by so many things more important than prayer
and reflection of the mind and soul.
So many Sunday mornings come and go
with little focus from the daily race.
Inspired…
It feels good to me,
To be alive in oneself, to be set in actuality.
Free from worldly expectations and corporational thoughts,
Able to set goals for oneself, let loose from wrought.
Distraught, and set into motion by the world’s needs,
Told how to live one’s life through social media and news feeds.
Agreed fear of change when change is the preset,
To reset, everything our parents raised us to become.
To change us into a social class clone.
Indifferent, numb...
Overcome, Victory!
It lives again, in every man’s heart,
To revive what has been torn apart.
Like water, rushing to bring alive the right,
Insight to be more than staying up on these sleepless nights.
Enslaved to an addiction, with emptiness as chains,
Explained by syndromes, fancy medical conditions.
Convictions no longer ashamed of the change of the reanimation of his title.
Idle regurgitation of all the foul slang and the hate and the pain.
No longer conformed but transformed by his Name.
To be set free, to be…
Me.
The chancy countdown clock of my mortality
is ticking toward some unknown preset alarm.
I’m aware of every taciturn tick tock
in unrecoverable moments spent waiting
for something to happen…
and I do not wait well.
I wait for stiff slices of tanned toast to pop up.
I wait for the microwave’s proclamatory ping.
I wait for endless dreary drizzle to stop.
I wait for supplemental shoes to drop.
I wait for stern scarlet stoplights to glow green.
I wait for stalled responses to emailed queries.
I wait for weighty debts to be repaid.
I wait for market losses to regain.
I wait for unsure recovery from illness.
I wait for a time and place of serene stillness.
I wait to watch news that makes me feel happy…
instead of sadly numb from unrelenting horror.
I wait for a time when love and peace…
are not hammered by hate and violence.
I wait for our warming forests to stop catching fire.
I wait for AI to prove its promise rather than peril.
I wait for a clogged Congress to civilly meet in the middle.
I wait for common sense and facts to regain a following.
I wait for a time when cynicism concedes to optimism.
I wait for the long dark night of our collective souls to end.
I wait for the culmination of all things, large and small.
I wait for a time when all our waiting concludes.
I wait for anticipatory hope of Advent and Eschaton
to authentically, faithfully, finally, feel real to me.
But I’m mired in my own limited perception.
I need another perspective for waiting well.
I recall my life spans just an eye-blink slice
within deep, astronomical, cosmic time.
From the Big Bang to the Bethlehem star
over thirteen billion years passed by,
a very long Advent time indeed.
God must be very good at waiting.
(First published in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal (Issue V, Winter 2024) 46-47. See also my poems “Star of Wondering” and “Bringing Heaven to Earth.”)
Tender hearts are set on success,
Their future paved with progress.
The jolly march, the zest of life—
To the beat of drum and fife.
Beasts from Sambisa darkness
Couch in supernal stillness.
Unknown, snatchers are mooring,
Hiding in the quiet morning.
Soon they burst in moony gory,
Garbed as in fantasy story.
The hooded beasts tower;
The hapless virgins cower.
Bulging eyes, quivering lips,
Throbbing hearts that fear rips;
With the visit of havoc,
The future's chilled in Chibok.
A cracking shot, a soft fall,
Sudden gasp, noisome bawl;
All's quiet, now and future:
Chibok, her life can't suture.
What a black morning sunset
For kids whose future's preset
With hopes and rosy bloom,
Assured of better boom!
All's gone to Sambisa wild,
To beasts that strut, humans styled.
They careless for our future,
Our mums who are our nurture.
Copyright © 2014
Miscommunication, is fabrication of reality
When actually it’s a matter of perspective.
She was a standout, with a name similar to yours
With pure intentions, painful convictions but losing to her own dispositions.
Deprivation of her moral mentality structure crumbles
Caused by misadventures of her past life
Blighted with horrific memories
Tragic upsets that shake the very foundation of her soul.
Lead by the goals of our society
To keep the mindset that anxiety… controls you
But who understands?
Those who demand you to over expand your capability of toleration to your demons?
Pharmaceutical apprehension to be your companion in this never-ending struggle?
School systems have programs
That program you to say
Everything’s okay
Just get over it and move on
But you see there is no off switch to pain
No preset to reset her experiences
The hand that she felt
A seatbelt that would strap her into a horrible roller-coaster ride of misery
You see, there is something wrong with this picture
Its missing something
Someone…
You?
Maybe everything that she needed was a frosty before third period on a March afternoon
Or maybe, an almond milk macchiato on finals week at Delos across the street
Or even an acquainted silence of tears while she spilled her heart on the dashboard of your car.
She needed a home
No not a bed to sleep in with complimentary breakfast
No!
A resting place
That’s laced with people who care to hear the response of how her day is,
Or how’s she’s doing in school
Or why is there scars on her…
Arms to be held in when she needs comfort.
Sometimes we’re the only savior that people see,
But what saviors are we when we’re preoccupied with our own self-indulgence of social media.
Temporary satisfactions from addictions ever going,
Distracting us from having true meaning in life.
We need to make a stand,
To withstand this generational curse.
Of carelessness of peoples pain,
But first, let me update my status.
I am a mirror
as I see you
seeing me
I'm looking at you
looking at me
how can it be
so endearing
yet I don't understand
the preset of the married
remember signing object
Gathering light and Spears of Darkness
rotating in it spinning it around
making it a reflective vision unlike sound
and image of myself shining brightly
colored Illuminating showing the inside me
outside of me how can I be
a mirror when I can see myselff
as I breathe my last breath
because I make it to the crest
and I am a reflection of all else
that I am myself
I am a mirror of thinking of me
Now You See Me Now
a shiny abstract Vision wow
crushed sand molded and heated
I'm Crush pressurize depleted polish
it is shaping at a glance
I am a mirror by chance
5/17/22
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.2022©
He returned to his quite recent creation
Just to make check on the current situation.
Tigrons slid in from the plains to lie at their ease
Away from midday sun under those singing trees,
Stretching lazily leisurely showing razored claw
In unconscious reminder of nature in the raw.
The ko-ko-ko birds still made their daily run
Fast blonde flashes in that pulsing square sun;
The fleecy white clouds made the long grass wet
Releasing their loads on that very second preset.
The singing trees moved and swayed
In the breeze that quite gently played
And filled the air with their song
That played and replayed all day long.
And in their Eden Garden the Adam and the Eve,
Still naked in their ignorance, made him believe
That maybe this time this world could be free
From the bondage of that wild knowledge tree.
As the sky filled with that square white moon
The singing trees changed to their nocturnal tune
And under that gentle white light
This world slipped slowly into night.
He noted down his next time of review
And with a small sigh quickly withdrew.
Like a sweet child in ballet
toe steps glide across the archway,
A graceful pirouette holding breath and heartbeat
balanced then suddenly rising like modern athletes.
A rhythmic cadence hustles across the days
when life is simple and living all game play,
Then the day waltzes methodic 3/4 weeks
sashaying manic tango pause then slips away piqued.
The merengue drags bodies closely touched
sweeping lags across the room in two quarters clutched,
bolero sharps and turns spinning like the fading years
lost in the frenzy of living fast and freely shed tears
A twisting stomp to slap the earth
quick tarantella wild winds giving birth,
a shuffle into polonaise gentle and lullaby eyes
slides to rest in minuet reprieves and haunting cries.
Too soon the days are months turned to years
and decades lost to the aging cheers,
gone is the youth of preset times
lost but not forgotten holding their prime.
Like the dance that stirred our spirits long ago
dream and memory holds steady in life's shows,
there is no end for life's pawn,
the dance lives forever a youthful swan.
Democracy is a hoax
And it was meant to be
As it is, a set of sad jokes
A cheerful old trickery
You are offered to favour one
From the faces chosen not by you
The work is already done
It’s preset, in case you won’t do
So it’s always a meritocracy
No demos reserved, but elite
Travestied as democracy
Telling you what you need
It’s a master and slave metonymy
As it was, but the good news is
The elite can’t stand mind autonomy
Much more than in previous years
That’s encouraging, cause it seems
The democracy plot gets worn out
Age reveals those repressive schemes
I could easily live without
Every morning, I open my eyes, and I wonder at my surroundings.
Before any constructive thoughts, chaos comes raging as waves, crashing through my mind.
Crowds speak in unison, yet, against the grains in the sands of time.
Past memories that may be false, as they feel like they belong to someone else, and scenario’s that never will be;
confusion that paralyzes rationality and lost moments recollected out of context;
sudden realization of needed self preservation and implosive, internal destruction bursts like a supernova;
emotions on the tipping point of control, spiral into a death dive - as a predator hunt’s it’s meal, so too do they threaten to devour the entirety of my being.
Realization, that the wandering moments of yesterday, standing deep in a dense fog, are all but lost if not chased; propelling a desire of recollection.
The crowd of voices become amplified, as if to reverberate through an empty chamber.
A funny joke, a terrifying laugh from a seemingly simple weatherman, the bark of a cat and sounds of a drowning fish; an argument settled after a battle in a lost war.
Instructions whispered in urgency…I am almost there.
There are a plethora of directions, end points of accomplishment. Success at a task generates only, yet another task, complicit to procrastination in understanding the numbness.
Compelled to breathe, my own words break free of their restraints and I am convinced to search.
Awe….the blanket is red, the door is closed and the shades are open. There, a written reminder, a preset notification, so to speak…drawn by the hand of a stranger, it expels any worries that I shouldn’t be where I am.
An over-spilling riverbank of realization supersedes the chaos and I am able to sort the broken pieces.
Sometimes I can reassemble them, most times they are rebuilt by someone else, repurposed and perhaps handed down, as if generational.
Truth begins it’s treacherous journey into my heart and let’s my mind stray, as it organizes what must be done to move forward, the triggers of the moment, deciding the fate of my day.